Tap. 12.30pm. Tap. Text. Tap. Oliver Thring. Tap. ‘Just setting off now – see you there.’ Tap. I stopped just outside the market entrance, feeling a little jaded as I attempted to follow my iPhone’s GPS lead. And then, it happened, like a tingle in the gut, I sensed the presence of another ‘one’ who obsesses about the tastes and the smells, like me. Bicycle helmet in hand, sun striking a silhouette against his mean bits (too much?) , he uttered, in deep baritone: “You wouldn’t happen to be… Kang?” Yes folks. It is he. Mr Thring has finally landed. We shake hands like two hungry gentlemen and proceeded to fall in line with the masses who’ve come for a pilgrimage. The pilgrimage to eat the best, damn pizza known to Londoners
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